Apple Juice.

Our apple tree is in her last trimester. The weight of her harvest pulls her branches low enough for young fingers to feast.

I don't know a thing about gardening, growing, planting, or harvesting. I do not know why our mother tree is so fertile while her sisters nearby produce small, sour rot. I do know that this tree, with her branches a stretched umbrella of shade, is quite well-loved.

Babies swing from her limbs and climb gingerly about her trunk. Friends gather about her in lawn chairs to relish the summer. She is the setting of so many cherished photographs.

I can't help wondering if her sisters are envious. The thought makes me want to go read them a bed-time story and kiss them goodnight.

Rachel and I shook the mother tree's branches for her, sacrificing for a moment our own safety to relieve her limbs of their sweet bounty. Apples flied and we felt as if she sighed just a little, in relief.

Rachel and I mused about our connection to this tree; about our need to be loved and cherished, and to know that our contributions are appreciated. We work hard to bear fruit. So hard that sometimes we even need our branches shaken.

We had an apple party the other evening, juicing choice picks and drinking in the tart-sweetness. I'm trying not to think about saying goodbye. Our dear friends (dear after only a few months) are moving across the country in two days. I am so happy for the adventure they are heading into, but so sad at the same time. Rachel's been sitting in my shade, and swinging on my limbs, and she's been shaking my branches for me.

I've been sitting here for a few minutes now trying to think of a lighthearted way to wrap all of this up. I can't.

I'm really going to miss her.